John's Explanation
by Arkham's Angel
Summary: John leaves a letter for Sherlock, John tells him why he had to leave. T for themes. Implied Johnlock. Feels galore, you have been warned.


Sherlock,

Let me first start by saying this: I don't regret a second of it. Not a minute with you was wasted. I had nobody, and then I had you. I was alone. So damn alone. And I thank you for being there for me.

But I can't do this anymore.

Being strapped in those bombs...It brought things back that I would have rather stayed buried.

In those woods, looking for that damn, oversized dog, I saw things. Not monsters, well, not giant hounds anyway. Now I know that it was "fear and stimulus". So I was seeing what I feared was there.

And I wasn't scared of a big fucking dog, Sherlock.

I saw guns. And bombs. I saw my friends getting shot. I re-lived it all again.

All the fear, the fighting, the screams and gunshots. I've tried holding it off. But I can't. I have to tell you.

In hindsight, the entire operation had been pointless. Death and bloodshed; bombs and bullets. All for what? To gain a hundred or so meters of land? To supposedly be "one up" on the enemy wasn't worth seeing my friends, my comrades, men who had become a second family to me, to see them all blown to pieces.

But at the time, at the time I'd been different. I was a different man than I am today. A man who hadn't seen the horrors that I have.

I'd been bundled into dog tags, camouflage and combat boots, then stuffed into the sardine tins they call "bunkers". In my mind, joining the army had been the best decision of my life. A chance to help, to heal, to live. "Finally!" I'd thought, "I can really make a difference!".

Bollocks. Absolute bullshit.

Make a difference they told me? The only difference made in those Godforsaken trenches, had been the change in me.

Looking back, I know know that all the happy smiles from our leaders, and all the fun at the training facilities hadn't been there to train us. They'd been there to brainwash us. To trick us into thinking that what we were doing, aiding those who were killing the innocent, was the right thing to do.

For Queen and country and all that jazz.

I know what I am now. I'm lucky. I survived.

That wasn't through any talents of my own, though. Men twice as skilled as me went to their deaths because of a bullet or a bomb raid.

Surviving was a roll of the dice. A new hand of cards every day. I didn't have good game play. Just a lucky deal. My friends were less fortunate.

Memories of what I saw haunt me. Plague me. Wrap their merciless clutches around my heart and squeeze until I'm left a shaking wreck, leaning on the nearest solid object for support.

The doctors say I have PTSD. They're wrong. They have no idea. No idea of what I saw. What I felt as I held the bloody, lifeless body of Lieutenant Rogers, my best friend. They don't have a clue. None of them.

I saw the light leave his eyes. I saw the essence of life slip away from his body.

People get distressed when they see dead bodies. A gently lain, peaceful body of a dead relative is nothing, _nothing_, nothing at all, compared to seeing the closest friend you have welcoming death to escape the agony of having half his leg blown off by a land mine and three bullet wounds pouring blood from his stomach.

The opposition were damn good shots, I'll give them that.

The worse part was, I could have saved him. I had the equipment, the skills, _everything_ I needed to save him. Just not the speed in getting there.

I was terrified. All the time.

Fear was a constant presence, like a thick, dense smog resting on everyone in the bunker. Sucking out any positive thought or idea before it could even form. No shame was placed upon anyone who cried. We all did it at one point.

I nearly died once. A sniper on the other side hit me in the shoulder and sent me crashing to the floor. I could feel _everything_. Some people say that you go numb. That you don't feel the pain.

That's a fat load of horse shit, and don't ever think it's true.

I felt all the pain. The pain from the impact of the bullet. The pain from the hard ground when I hit it. The pain in my leg where it twisted as I fell. The pain in my throat as I screamed and yelled and cried...

Let's just say there was a lot of pain and leave it there.

I could feel the blood, warm and sticky, running down my arm. First in trickles, then stronger, faster until my arm was stained in my own life essence.

I was the only doctor in that part of the field.

I thought I'd die. My medi-kit having been launched away when I fell, not that I'm entirely sure I'd have been able to stitch up my own arm in the state I was in anyway.

They say that when you think you're going to die, your life flashes before your eyes. I think "they" need to stop making presumptions because "they" have been wrong a lot already. You don't see the life you've had. You see the life you'll miss. The birthdays you'll never see. The wedding you'll never get. The children you'll never have...

It's heart-breaking. You'd think in your last moments your brain would give you something not quite as soul crushing, but it doesn't.

So, I don't have PTSD. Survivor's guilt seems more likely. I don't think a day has gone by where I haven't thought of the friends I fought with. Dead. I'm one of those who made it home. And I was kicked out! Funny old world, isn't it?

Wars are _suicide_. So I can't blame myself. I don't. It wasn't my fault. I _saved_ lives, for crying out loud! Semi-consciously though, maybe I do feel some guilt for not being able to save enough. For the lives I had to take when the situation called for it.

Maybe I feel some guilt for just being alive, while others couldn't even have enough of themselves salvaged to be put in a coffin.

But it's not guilt that's making me feel this way. Feeling like I need to leave.

You see, motives are a funny thing. But love is the most powerful, and destructive, one of all.

My love for my helping others sent me to medical school. My love for my country made me an army doctor. The love of my friends kept me strong. My love for life kept me surviving.

Love or fear are the only two motives for anything when everything else is stripped away. A combination of the two is the most common, and the yet, the rarest of the lot.

I guess my reason for leaving is a combination of the two.

I'm scared of what might happen next. Living with you, I'm never bored. But I'm never safe. And I don't know what memories might be dredged up next.

And because I love you, Sherlock. You saved me when I needed someone. You made my life, me, better. And I can't thank you enough for that.

Try to be...not yourself...around Mrs Hudson. Explain to her as best you can. Make sure she's safe. Not that anyone could hurt her, she's got you and half of Scotland Yard looking out for her, not to mention she's one tough old bird!

I'll love you. I'm sorry.

Your colleague, and friend,

John Watson.

__The next day__

Sherlock stood in the mourge, his dark coat contrasting with his pale complexion. He seemed even paler than normal, as his trademark cold, calculating gaze was replaced with a softer one as it scanned the body of the not-long-since deceased army doctor.

Molly had left the room to leave Sherlock to his "deductions". She knew he wasn't there for deductions, not really. He was there to say goodbye under the pretence of wanting to ensure that John's suicide wasn't an abstract murder, similar to those of Edward Van Coon and Brian Lukis.

In a way, it was almost sweet. How Sherlock, even with all his sociopathic tendencies, wanted to say goodbye to his friend. Even if he didn't quite understand that he could have just told everyone that he wanted to say his farewells.

Even from her position outside of the room, Molly could hear Sherlock trying to deduce that John wasn't really dead. That he was alive and that the dead body in front of him wasn't in fact, John.

"Damn it!" Sherlock's yell rang out through the mourge and along the hallway where Molly stood. She considered walking away, leaving Sherlock to his deductions, when she heard a strangled, choking sound slip through the door.

"John..." Sherlock sobbed.

Sherlock was...crying? Molly gently pushed open the doors and slipped in. She walked over to Sherlock. He had sunk to the floor by John's limp body, and held his head in his hands, fingers gripping and releasing his already tousled hair in quick succession.

Molly didn't breathe a word. There was nothing to be said. Nothing Sherlock wouldn't have already come up with, anyway. She just sank to the floor next to him and let her own tears spill over. John had been a good man. A good friend. To her and especially to Sherlock. Sherlock inclined his head to Molly, thanking her without words. No words needed to be exchanged. This was enough.

Molly reached into her lab coat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She placed them on the floor by Sherlock's hands, then rose to her feet.

"I won't tell," she promised in a thick, tear filled voice, "just...go easy."

Then she left.

Sherlock looked to the packet next to his left hand. Then to John's lifeless form. There was no mistake. It was John. And Sherlock had as good as killed him.

If he hadn't kept on dragging John into danger none of this would have happened.

If he hadn't have been so oblivious to emotions, he would have known John needed someone to talk to.

It was Sherlock's fault.

He left the cigarettes where they were. He didn't deserve relief. God knows he didn't...

_**Hi guys...So it's been a while, huh? **_

_**This was an idea that's been floating around in my head for a while, and we got set homework to write a story based on the war and the story that I eventually churned out, I realised with a few small tweaks would be PERFECT for John's POV. **_

_**I apologise for any feels I may have caused...**_

_**I'm gonna leave this as a one shot for now. But, who knows? I might make it into a story one day ;) **_

_**I am super, super, super sorry to anyone following my other stories. I've not had a computer in months and I've only just realised how to write from my Kindle. So I should, hopefully, be able to update those two now! Yay! **_

_**If you liked it, drop a review, if you didn't like tell me what I could improve! **_

_**Any spelling mistakes please point out and I'll fix them as soon as I can...because I'm a little shit for spelling when spellchecker exists to ruin my life :(**_

_**As always, thank you for reading. Love you all!**_

_**DISCLAIMER: All rights to original owners, unfortunately...believe me if I owned Sherlock, that sheet would have stayed under Mycroft' s foot ;)**_

**_Free cookies and hugs to all readers because you're amazing people! WHOOP WHOOP!_**

_**~Arkahm's Angel**_


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